


Bequests, Birthrights, and Brothers

by San Antonio Rose (ramblin_rosie)



Series: Healing the Heart of a Giant [1]
Category: Cheyenne (TV)
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cross-Posted on LiveJournal, Cross-cultural adoption and consequences thereof, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Issues, Gen, Historical References, Indian Wars, Loss of Parent(s), Mentions of George Armstrong Custer, Native American Character(s), References to historical atrocities, Strained Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27483121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramblin_rosie/pseuds/San%20Antonio%20Rose
Summary: Cheyenne may have failed to broker peace between Lionel Abbot and White Cloud, but he's about to discover that he does have a family after all--maybe more than one. (Coda to 6.08 "Legacy of the Lost"; originally posted on FF.n/LJ, slightly revised)
Relationships: Cheyenne Bodie & Tom "Sugarfoot" Brewster & Bronco Layne
Series: Healing the Heart of a Giant [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008312
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I _can’t_ be the only person writing _Cheyenne_ fanfic these days, can I? Somebody else has probably already written a better tag for this ep decades ago—but if so, I can’t find it online, as nothing turned up in a search on FF.n and AO3’s _Cheyenne_ tag is empty when I prepare to post this story here. So here’s my humble effort for what it’s worth. (I watched _Cheyenne_ on H&I without a DVR until they dropped it and thus can’t double-check details from “Gold, Glory, and Custer” or “Legacy of the Lost” as thoroughly as I can for shows I have on DVD, so some bits may not be right. Chalk the whole thing up as an AU if it bothers you too much.)
> 
> There’s some very sensitive history both in this story and in canon. I’ve tried to tread carefully and take my information from Northern Cheyenne websites, and from similar sources like the biographical sketches by Ohiyesa (Charles A. Eastman), as much as possible while still remaining within the limits of the show’s sixty-year-old canon. (Cheyenne’s opinion of Roman Nose, for example, is based mainly on Eastman’s view that Roman Nose was a great but reckless warrior.) I’m also drawing on scholarship by Scott Zesch and others on the experience of child captives who returned to white society; Cheyenne’s hard to classify as a captive per se because of the age at which White Cloud adopted him, but there are certainly parallels between his story and those of long-term captives like Herman Lehmann. I apologize in advance if I give offense despite these good-faith efforts.
> 
> I’ve also had to take kind of a stab in the dark as to the date and location of “Legacy of the Lost.” As the Cheyenne Wiki notes somewhat despairingly, the episodic nature of the series means that the chronology of the episodes is all over the place, even within one season, and trying to map events of the show onto datable historical events sometimes forces Cheyenne to be in two or more places at once. There are no dates given in “Legacy of the Lost,” but Cheyenne gets a new hat while living as John Abbot that he wears again in “The Brahma Bull,” which is explicitly set in 1875. That’s slim dating evidence to go on, I know, especially since “Duel at Judas Basin” (1875), “Gold, Glory, and Custer” (1874-6) and “Savage Breed” (1878) show him wearing the old hat—but since the Northern Cheyenne were forced to move to reservations in Indian Territory just a few months after the Little Bighorn, “Legacy of the Lost” can’t reasonably come after “Duel at Judas Basin.” (Admittedly, other than the GG&C two-parter, these episodes don’t form an arc per se; but there we are.) Similarly, Bronco and Tom’s appearances are based on guesstimates of dates of some of their own stories ( _Sugarfoot_ “The Shadow Catcher” and _Bronco_ “Payroll of the Dead”) that appear to put them in the Black Hills at roughly the same time.
> 
> Lastly, Small Bear is actually a character from the _Cheyenne_ comic books whom I’ve sort of conflated with the messenger character in “Legacy of the Lost” played by X Brands. Cheyenne never appears in Small Bear’s stories, but I didn’t want to go too far afield in looking for a character name.
> 
> Many thanks to KayValo87 for helping me sort out logistics and to both her and jennytork for betaing despite not knowing the show!

Bequests, Birthrights, and Brothers  
By San Antonio Rose

_He said, “Damn you, Daddy” on the day that he died;  
The man didn’t blink, but the little boy cried._  
—Jimmy Wayne, “I Love You This Much”

_“You do what you have to for family.”_   
_“What rule’s that?”_   
_“The unspoken one.”_   
—Mike Franks and Leroy Jethro Gibbs, _NCIS_

_Family don’t end with blood._   
—Bobby Singer, _Supernatural_

Chapter 1

“Where’s it supposed to end?” Cheyenne demanded as White Cloud and Lionel Abbot stared bitterly at each other, clinging to their blood feud so tightly they wouldn’t even speak. “When there’s nobody left? Is that your solution? Well, if it is, I’m ashamed of you. Ashamed that I called either of you father.”

Abbot blinked first. Of course he did. The man wasn’t completely yellow—it was no small thing for him to allow Cheyenne to talk him into meeting White Cloud this way, alone with no other backup than Cheyenne himself—but like most rich men who’d grown from bullies to tyrants, he couldn’t bear to admit that he’d been wrong. He’d been stung by James’ admission that Cheyenne wasn’t really the long-lost and now undeniably dead John, and he’d been stung even worse by James’ decision to leave and Cheyenne’s refusal to let him avoid recognizing his own role in the mess. No, it was pride that had made him come and pride that now made him turn his horse and go home without so much as a backward glance at the man he’d spent a month calling his son. Cheyenne was sure it would be days, at best, before his words truly went home for Abbot, let alone the grief behind the mask of hate on White Cloud’s face. Abbot was probably more offended by seeing Cheyenne at White Cloud’s side than by anything else that had happened that entire week.

Cheyenne sighed quietly as he watched Abbot ride away. He hadn’t really expected to change the man’s mind, but he’d had to try. At least Abbot had curbed his impulse to spit venomous threats against White Cloud’s band, and there’d been no bloodshed—that was about the best outcome Cheyenne could have hoped for. Not that it mattered much to him personally whether Abbot lived or died, except insofar as it could end the killings, but he’d parted from James and Lorna on friendly terms and didn’t want to see them disinherited if Abbot died now.

Then Cheyenne looked at White Cloud, who was staring fixedly after Abbot. There was still hatred in White Cloud’s eyes, but it faded as Abbot disappeared among the trees. What remained were the sorrow and pain Cheyenne had seen before—and shame, deep shame. His shoulders hunched, and he avoided making eye contact with Cheyenne before likewise turning and riding away without a word or backward glance.

Cheyenne sighed again. He’d meant what he’d said, but it grieved him to see White Cloud so weary and broken, as if he’d forgotten how to smile. It would do no good to ride after him now, though, much as Cheyenne hoped this wouldn’t be his last sight of the only father he’d ever known. White Cloud was still clutching the last shreds of his pride more tenaciously than he held the old rifle in his arms and the threadbare blanket around his shoulders, and Cheyenne would only make things worse if he tried to reconcile with White Cloud too soon.

Abbot had gone south. White Cloud had gone north. Cheyenne turned west, alone.

It hurt, being back here, seeing all the places he’d loved as a child either barren of people or being turned into grist for Abbot’s empire-building mill. Maybe that was why he’d stayed away so long—not that he hadn’t had genuine reasons for working everywhere else but here. He’d tried to get along with Abbot, both from the real belief that he was John Abbot and for the sake of getting the land transferred to his own name so he could let his people return. But now all that had failed, and the happiest memories of his childhood were overlaid with the terrors he’d tried to forget… Abbot’s raiders killing anything that moved, White Cloud’s warriors boasting of white scalps, neither with any regard for Grey Fox, who belonged to both worlds and neither at the same time.

Sometimes he’d wondered whether he should have stayed for White Cloud’s sake. He suspected now that it wouldn’t have made any difference.

In this gloomy mood, Cheyenne found a clear stream and decided to camp early. Yet while his horse drank eagerly, his nerveless fingers fumbled and slipped on the cinch strap of his saddle. Finally he gave up, settled for taking his saddlebags off, and wandered aimlessly around the clearing, intending to look for firewood but too heartsick to focus on anything.

He had no idea how much time had passed when his mental fog was pierced by the sound of approaching hoofbeats and a cry of “Pó’ėhóóhe!”[1]

“Who’s there?” he called back, reaching for his gun.

A moment later, Small Bear, one of White Cloud’s most trusted warriors, rode into the clearing. “I’m sorry,” he stated gravely in the language of the People. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Cheyenne relaxed and let go of his gun. “That’s all right,” he replied in the same language. “What is it?”

“White Cloud is ill—it’s his heart. He calls for Grey Fox.”

Cheyenne grabbed his saddlebags and mounted at a run, praying to any god who would listen that they’d get to White Cloud in time.

“He had us follow the two of you at a distance,” Small Bear explained as they galloped back the way he’d come. “We heard nothing, but I saw where you went.”

“Did my father say anything of the meeting?” Cheyenne asked.

“No, he said nothing at all. We knew it hadn’t gone well. We’d just stopped to rest the horses when he gasped and collapsed.”

“Well, did you send a rider toward town? The white men have medicines—”

“They also have _guns_ , and Abbot has filled their minds with hate. Even if a rider could reach town without getting shot, the healer wouldn’t come to us. We’ve tried to ask for his help in the past and been turned away.”

Cheyenne kept his opinions on the subject to himself.

Small Bear waited a moment before continuing. “The old ones say you talk like Black Kettle.”

“Black Kettle was a wise man, wiser than Roman Nose. He didn’t deserve what Custer did to him.”

“Well, they won’t say it, but I will: Thank you for trying to get our land back for us peacefully.”

“I’m only sorry it didn’t work.”

“Yes, but you _tried_ when no one else would.”

Cheyenne shook his head. “Maybe I should have tried sooner.”

“I don’t think you would have gotten as far as you did.” When Cheyenne shook his head again, Small Bear pressed, “No, listen, Grey Fox. No one in our camp was talking of peace even two summers ago. We’d had no sign of Abbot’s mind until James Abbot came back from the East, and there was still hope for victory despite everything that happened after Medicine Lodge. Nobody realized our struggle with Abbot’s men was like two elk with their horns locked.”

That was a more vivid description of the situation than _stalemate_ , Cheyenne had to admit. Normally, a fight between two bull elk would end with one yielding, but if their horns became too tangled to separate, they’d fight until one or both died. Maybe if someone had raised the analogy sooner—

“Wait,” he said aloud as something else Small Bear had said suddenly registered. “Why did James coming back change anything, and how do you know what Abbot was thinking?”

Small Bear didn’t answer immediately.

“Small Bear?”

Small Bear sighed heavily. “Last winter, just after the first snow, we were foraging and came upon James alone in the woods, unarmed. I almost took his scalp then, but he begged White Cloud to hear him out. White Cloud sent the others ahead but had me stay behind. James asked many questions about the attack on the wagon train, about his brother, and about you, and he told us of his father’s desire to leave everything to John. White Cloud showed him the locket, told him the truth, and then sent me away. I don’t know what deal they made, but I’m sure White Cloud wouldn’t have accepted the deal if he’d known the question-man would try to kill you.”

Cheyenne frowned. “How’d you know about Carter?”

“I was watching the house. After we found you and James by the river, I knew something was wrong.”

“Well, at least I’ve got _one_ friend left in these parts,” Cheyenne grumbled under his breath in English and let the conversation lapse.

It was dusk when they reached the camp where White Cloud’s warriors had erected a couple of tepees and kept vigil over their fallen leader. Cheyenne tossed his reins to Small Bear as he slid out of the saddle and ran into White Cloud’s tepee. By some miracle, White Cloud was still breathing; he was asleep but roused at the sound of footsteps.

“Pó’ėhóóhe,” he wheezed. “Pó’ėhóóhe….”

“I’m here, my father,” Cheyenne replied, kneeling by his side and taking his hand.

White Cloud’s eyes fluttered open. “My son… I have wronged you,” he gasped in English. “I lied… to help… our people… but I… did not think… of what… that lie… would do… to you.”

Cheyenne swallowed hard. “I _am_ hurt, my father—but I do not love you less.”

“Do you… love… Lionel… Abbot?”

“I tried to, my father. I wanted to. He did not make it easy. I think he loved the idea of John Abbot more than he loved me.” Cheyenne paused. “Now that is all he has left. I am sorry for him.”

White Cloud squeezed his hand feebly. “I did not ask… tell me… how you are.”

“Oh, you know, I’m gettin’ along. Nothin’ ever seems to fit for very long. But I still use every skill you ever taught me, try to save lives and keep the peace.”

And—there, the ghost of a smile flickered on White Cloud’s face. “Tell us… your deeds… my son.”

At that, Small Bear and the other warriors ducked into the tepee and gathered around, so Cheyenne switched languages and answered their questions as truthfully as he could. He’d never been a dab hand at telling stories in either language, and he knew he’d never accept a place among one of the military societies even if the elders agreed that he’d earned it. (He might not have minded being a peace chief, but the band was too small to send a delegate to the Council of Forty-Four.) Still, White Cloud had asked, and it was a more pleasant way to pass the time than simply sitting in silence. Some of the funny stories even got a few laughs from the others and genuine smiles from White Cloud.

The rest of the band arrived during the course of the evening, and it was nearly midnight when one of the grandmothers finally persuaded Cheyenne to eat something—just bread and chokecherry pudding, but delicious as it was, he had trouble eating much. His stomach felt like lead. He’d wanted to come back, to reconcile… but not like this.

One of the other elders watched him eat, then turned to White Cloud. “I thought you said Grey Fox was dead,” he said in a tone that implied a test.

“I was… wrong,” White Cloud replied. “Grey Fox… lives. He is… my true son.”

Cheyenne couldn’t put a name to the bittersweet pang of emotion that shot through him at those words. They didn’t undo the events of the last month or erase the harsh words White Cloud had said while trying to sell everyone on the idea that Cheyenne was John Abbot, but they were at least a sign that his adoptive father still loved him after all.

“Grey Fox is a great warrior,” said Small Bear.

White Cloud nodded. “Yes. So proud. _So_ proud.”

Cheyenne managed a smile and finished the piece of bread he’d been nibbling on. Then he took a deep breath and looked around. “Look, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight. If you men want to get some rest, I’ll keep watch.”

There was some murmuring at that, not all of which Cheyenne caught; some of his vocabulary hadn’t had the rust knocked off it yet.

“Go, my warriors,” said White Cloud in as commanding a voice as he could muster. “Let me… talk with… my son.”

There was no gainsaying an order like that, so everyone else left, many of the elders patting Cheyenne on the shoulder or cheek as they passed. Small Bear left last and gave Cheyenne’s shoulder a friendly squeeze on his way out.

When they were alone, Cheyenne sighed and switched back to English. “My father, let me take you into town. With a fresh horse, I could—”

“No, my son,” his father whispered in the same language. “You would… kill the horse… to no purpose. I do not… have long.”

Resigned, Cheyenne ducked his head. “Seems like everything I do these days falls apart.”

His father grabbed his hand. “No. Not everything. You can still… save our people.”

“How? Abbot won’t sign that land over to me now, not knowing who I really am. And you know I can’t stay here for good.”

“That is not… the only answer.” White Cloud swallowed hard. “My son… take them… to Little Wolf.”

Cheyenne felt the blood drain from his face. He wasn’t completely sure where Little Wolf’s band was, but at last report, they’d been in the Black Hills along with Morning Star and their Arapaho allies. “My father, Custer has found gold in those hills,” he reported quietly but urgently. “I couldn’t make him honor the Fort Laramie Treaty—he just wouldn’t listen to me. His men are carving up the land for themselves as we speak. Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse are already talking of war. If they convince Morning Star and Little Wolf to join them….”

“Little Wolf… will need… more warriors.”

Cheyenne huffed in frustration. “So you want me to let our people get killed after all, the way Black Kettle died at the Washita?”

“That is better… than staying… and starving.” Before Cheyenne could protest again, White Cloud continued, “I know… what I ask… and I do not… ask lightly. You are right… about Abbot… but the herds… are all gone… from this land. We ca-… cannot stay. It is… it is better… to die fast… than die slow.”

Cheyenne felt trapped. No matter what he did, innocent people would die because men like Custer and Reno wouldn’t keep their sworn word and men like Abbot wouldn’t let go of their hate. The best he could do would be to mitigate the suffering for a year or two… and with Abbot holding all the cards here in Wyoming Territory, moving the band to Dakota Territory did appear to be the only alternative.

White Cloud tightened his grip on Cheyenne’s hand. “Will you take them… my son?”

Cheyenne bowed his head and ground out, “Yes, my father.”

Tears filled White Cloud’s eyes, and he reached up with his trembling free hand to caress Cheyenne’s cheek. “Grey Fox… my dear son. Can you… forgive me?”

Fighting tears himself, Cheyenne nodded. “I forgive you, my father.”

White Cloud smiled, and the last of his strength seemed to leave him. “My eyes… grow dim,” he said as his free hand fell back to his chest. “I go now. My son… walk in beauty.”

“Be at peace, my father,” Cheyenne replied in the language of the People. “I love you.”

“And… I… you.”

With that, White Cloud breathed his last, and Cheyenne wept.

* * *

The following days passed in a blur of sorrow and ceremony. Before he knew it, Cheyenne found himself walking away from his father’s freshly-filled grave in a chief’s regalia, made to reflect his own exploits as a warrior. He’d felt awkward in accepting and wearing it, but the elders had insisted, and until he handed responsibility for the band off to Little Wolf, he was the best leader they had left.

That night, he pulled Small Bear aside. “What supplies do we need for the next two weeks?”

Small Bear sighed and shook his head. “Flour and cornmeal, at minimum. We can forage for berries, but even our dried meat stores are low.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. And how many people, fifty?”

“Thereabout.”

Not knowing how far they’d have to go to reach Little Wolf made the sums difficult, but Cheyenne figured he’d need two wagons, at least, to carry all the supplies. Abbot had given him enough money to cover that expense, as long as he didn’t have to buy horses as well.

“All right,” he finally said. “At dawn tomorrow, I want my horse saddled and four pack horses bridled. I’ll need a second rider with me, too. I expect to be gone for a couple of days. Tell everyone to be ready to break camp the day after I return.”

Small Bear frowned. “You’re going into town to trade?”

“I am. Father gave me a job to do, and I don’t want to lose anyone on the way.”

“I’ll go with you, then.”

Cheyenne shook his head. “I’ll meet you at the edge of town with one load, at that blind spot behind the stables where the road bends around the tall rocks, but it’s too dangerous for you to come all the way into town. The further away we can get before anyone works out that we’ve gone, the better.”

“My friend—”

“If I go into town alone, people will think I’m just buying for myself or a white friend. I don’t want to risk Abbot finding out and sending his men after us while we’re out in the open.”

“But where are you taking us?”

Cheyenne grimaced. “Well, that’s one reason we may be gone overnight. I need to send a few messages to find out for sure. Plus, the less you know, the less you’ll tell if Abbot’s men capture you. But generally speaking, we’re going east.”

Small Bear’s eyes widened. “East?”

“Maybe into Dakota Territory. As I say, I’m not sure yet.”

“We’re not going.”

Cheyenne frowned, confused. “What do you mean—” Then his frown became a scowl. “You think I’d betray our people by tricking you into going to a reservation?!”

Small Bear’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Grey Fox.”

“We won’t leave the People’s lands, I promise. And the less we see of the Army, the better I’ll sleep.”

Small Bear suddenly looked ten years older. “I believe you. I’m sorry. It’s just—you said ‘east’ but not where, and you’d said you’d worked for the Army before, and….” He scrubbed at his forehead, as if he had a headache. “I wasn’t thinking. I should have known you’d never do that to us.”

“I may be white,” Cheyenne said slowly, “but I’ll bear the People’s name until the day I die. To betray you would be to betray myself.”

Small Bear nodded his understanding and rubbed his forehead again.

“I can’t stay with you for long, but I can’t leave you here to be starved out by Abbot. Father told me what he wanted me to do, and I told him I’d do it.”

“I forgot you’d mentioned that.” Small Bear sighed and nodded again. “If White Cloud wished it so, we’ll follow you. I take it we’re joining another band?”

Cheyenne nodded back. “That’s the plan, anyway. I can’t promise how much better things will be or for how long, but it won’t be reservation-bad, and as Father said, it beats staying and starving.”

“There is that.” Small Bear took a deep breath and let it out again. “All right. We’ll forage as much as we can while you’re gone, since there may not be much more than rabbits between here and the Black Hills.”

“Well, at least rabbits are edible. I’ll try to get something more in town, though, at least some bacon, maybe salt pork and beef jerky. I know it’s not what anyone’s used to, but any meat’s better than none, and salt pork’s better than horse.”

Small Bear grimaced in agreement.

* * *

[1] Grey Fox (Cheyenne—the usual word for “fox,” _ma’ėhóóhe_ , literally means “red fox,” and there doesn’t seem to be a standard word for “grey fox”; I’m following the precedent of the name Grey Skunk, Pó’ėxáó’o)


	2. Chapter 2

Not only was Small Bear waiting for Cheyenne in the morning, but so were six other braves. Cheyenne didn’t have the heart to tell them not to come, but he did give them strict orders to wait for him outside of town. “I don’t know how soon I’ll receive a reply to my messages,” he cautioned when they stopped, “so don’t be alarmed if I’m not back by nightfall. I’ll try to bring the first load out before dark, though.”

“We understand,” said Small Bear, and Cheyenne nodded and rode on into town alone.

His first stop was the telegraph office, where he drafted coded messages to Bronco Layne at Fort Abraham Lincoln and Tom Brewster in Little Rock inquiring about Little Wolf’s last known whereabouts. The line to the Little Rock station was down, but Bronco wired back almost immediately that Tom was with him and that they’d have the information by morning. That wasn’t ideal—Cheyenne had half hoped that Bronco would know offhand and he wouldn’t have to stay in town very long—but it wasn’t unexpected, and at least Bronco had gotten the message right away, which meant both that it hadn’t fallen into the wrong hands and that Cheyenne wouldn’t have to resort to measures as desperate as tracking down Bret Maverick to see whether _he_ happened to know. (The Maverick brothers had their strengths, but scouting the wilderness wasn’t one of them.)[1]

_Get it done, Johnny Reb_ , Cheyenne sent back to Bronco, took the horses to the livery stable, and went to the hotel to get a room and a bath.

Those must have been the magic words, for Cheyenne had just finished getting dressed after his bath and was adjusting the ring on his neckerchief when there was a knock at the door, which turned out to be the desk clerk delivering a telegram from Tom. _Latest report puts Little Wolf at Devils Tower two weeks ago_ , it read when decoded. _Report was made by a Crow scout. Watch your back._

Cheyenne suppressed a grumble at the misnaming of the sacred landmark known to the People as Bear Tepee, put the telegram in his breast pocket, and turned back to the clerk, who was struggling to move the tin bathtub. “Here, let me help you with that,” Cheyenne offered and lifted one end of the tub enough that the clerk could pick up the other end. “I’m afraid I won’t be needin’ the room after all.”

“Oh,” said the wide-eyed clerk, though Cheyenne couldn’t tell whether he was more astonished by the announcement or the ease with which Cheyenne had lifted his end. “Er. I’m… I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Abbot. Nothing seriously wrong, I trust?”

Cheyenne didn’t bother to correct him. “No, just some urgent personal business I have to take care of right away. Where can we take this?” he added, nodding to the tub that was still full of soapy water.

That snapped the clerk out of his daze, and he took the lead on carrying the tub out back to empty. As they went, Cheyenne did the sums to work out what he could and should purchase before he left town. If the band could manage to keep a pace of twenty miles a day, they’d reach Bear Tepee in seven days. (The cavalry could do thirty miles a day, so he could only hope stealth would be enough to avoid alarming anyone.) Figuring a pound of each of the main foodstuffs per adult for the week and half a pound of each per child, and allowing for the cost of the wagons and some water barrels just in case the streams and rivers along the route were dry… it would be tight, but he could afford it, and a pound or two of coffee for himself. So he paid for the bath, collected his gear, and headed to the livery stable.

The stable owner had several wagons for sale; they’d all seen better days, but two looked like they still had enough strength to get to Bear Tepee, so Cheyenne haggled for them and got a good enough bargain that he could add a few more meats to his shopping list. While the stable owner got the wagons and the horses ready to go, Cheyenne went to the butcher, who cut him a deal for some fresh venison along with a side of beef and fifty pounds of bacon. From there, he went to the general store, where he negotiated enough of a discount on the water barrels, salt pork, coffee, beans, flour, and cornmeal that he could spend the last of his cash on a stack of new blankets, probably Navajo-made, woven of bright Germantown wool. He could figure out how to get himself to a new job after he’d met up with Little Wolf… a chief’s first responsibility was to provide for his band, and it was worth the cost to know that the people who’d raised him would eat well for at least a few days and have better blankets for the winter.

His purchases made, Cheyenne went back to the stable, tied his horse to the tail of the first wagon, drove to the butcher’s shop, and loaded the beans and cornmeal while the butcher loaded the meats. The storekeeper also helped Cheyenne strap the first two water barrels to the sides of the wagon. Once that was done, Cheyenne drove out to the blind curve and stopped when Small Bear jumped onto the wagon seat beside him. One of the other braves untied Cheyenne’s horse.

“Take this down to the river to fill those water barrels,” Cheyenne said quietly, handing Small Bear the reins and climbing down. “I’ll be along in about an hour with the rest.”

“Can you tell us where we’re going yet?” Small Bear asked as the braves tied his horse to the wagon.

“I can. Bear Tepee.”

Small Bear huffed in relief, smiled, and shook his head. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Grey Fox.”

Cheyenne smiled back. “Go on, get that thing out of here before someone gets suspicious.”

Small Bear nodded and drove off. Another brave followed unprompted, dragging a tree branch behind his horse to obscure the wagon ruts. For his own part, Cheyenne waited about half an hour before riding back into town, collecting the second wagon, and driving it to the general store to pick up the second load of supplies.

He’d just finished tying down the last water barrel when he heard a familiar bellow of “John! _John!_ ”

Cheyenne drew a deep breath and wrestled down both his anger and his anxiety. “My name’s not John, Mr. Abbot,” he said as he turned around.

“Force of habit,” Abbot replied, striding down the boardwalk toward him. “I thought you were long gone.”

“I will be, soon as they finish loadin’ the wagon.”

“Oh, no.” Abbot closed the distance between them in a rush and put a hand on Cheyenne’s arm. “No, don’t go yet. Give me a chance to convince you to stay.”

No words could express how much Cheyenne did not want to set foot under Abbot’s roof again now, but it was worth one last try to get what he did want. “Will you sign that land over to me, in my own name?”

Abbot swallowed hard and backed away a few steps. “No. No, I… I couldn’t do that.”

“Is that because you won’t let it out of the family or because you know what I want it for?”

That set Abbot’s quick temper simmering, and his always-florid face reddened further. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Then there’s no reason for me to stay, is there?”

Abbot went instantly from simmer to boil. “I’ve told you before, I won’t be shamed by some self-styled martyr who walks away from his inherit—”

He was on the ground and bleeding from the corner of his mouth before Cheyenne even realized he’d thrown the punch. The first day they’d met, Abbot had taunted Cheyenne with the fact that he wouldn’t fight an old man, but after everything Abbot had put him through, Cheyenne had had enough.

“I’m not your son!” he yelled. “That inheritance was never mine to have!” He took the last of the blankets from the frozen storekeeper, put them in the wagon, and closed and latched the tailgate.

Abbot picked himself up and scrambled after Cheyenne. “No,” he pleaded as Cheyenne climbed into the wagon seat. “No, please… you’re all I have left!”

“You still have James,” Cheyenne noted, not looking at him.

“I want _you_.”

“No, you don’t. What you want is the John Abbot you’ve imagined all these years who’d do just what you tell him to, not a flesh-and-blood man with his own dreams and ideas who’s not afraid to tell you when you’re wrong.” Cheyenne picked up the reins. “Sorry I fell so short.” And he drove away, leaving Abbot spluttering behind him.

When he got to the blind curve, however, Cheyenne gave a signal whistle and stopped as the braves emerged from the rocks.

“What is it, Grey Fox?” asked one of them—Puma, Cheyenne thought his name was.

Cheyenne jumped down from the wagon. “Change of plans. Take this to Small Bear; tell him I’ll meet you back at camp.”

Puma nodded, and Cheyenne clapped him gratefully on the shoulder and untied his horse while Puma climbed onto the wagon. As before, when Puma drove away, a second brave followed, dragging brush behind him. Cheyenne waited one minute before leading the other three braves on a winding path back to camp to throw off pursuit.

“My people!” he called as they rode in. “Prepare to move as soon as the sun sets. We ride for Bear Tepee tonight.”

There was some murmuring at that, and one of the elders asked, “What has happened, Grey Fox? Where are Small Bear and the other men?”

“Drawing water, my grandfather,” Cheyenne replied as he dismounted. “The supply wagons are with them. But I saw Lionel Abbot in town, and we parted in anger.”

The murmuring took on a note of dismay.

“I don’t know what he may have guessed or been told,” Cheyenne continued. “But I don’t want to risk staying here another night.”

“You are wise, my grandson,” the elder agreed as the rest of the band immediately started the process of tearing down the camp. “The nights will be dark at this time of the moon, so we can move without being seen. But we have small children, and some of us are too weak to walk so far.”

Cheyenne nodded. “We must make room in the wagons. The oldest and the youngest can ride together and not fear for our pace. I have bought meat, also, and other stores that will give us strength for the journey.”

The elder looked ready to cry as he clasped Cheyenne by the shoulders. “Truly you are White Cloud’s son.”

Cheyenne couldn’t think of any higher praise he could have received.

Only the cooking fires remained when Small Bear arrived with the wagons, and the supplies were swiftly and joyfully divided among the families. Cheyenne did have to warn everyone not to sing too loudly and give away their position, but the delighted smiles, happy chatter, and songs of thanks to Maheo were worth every penny he’d spent and then some. And as night fell, he personally settled the elders and the toddlers in the wagons.

Then he mounted his own horse, turned to the rest of the band, and announced, “We will be traveling by night, my people, and we cannot risk discovery. Take care as you walk that neither you nor your horses stumble. If you spy game, do not fire your rifles; shoot only arrows. We will be avoiding towns and homesteads, and there will be no raiding. Be as silent as the deer, and leave nothing but the ashes of your fires behind you.”

“We understand, Grey Fox,” Small Bear answered for everyone. Even before Cheyenne had thought to ask, Small Bear had already assigned three riders to brush over their trail.

Cheyenne nodded, rode to the head of the column, and gave the order to move out.

* * *

The first five nights passed mercifully without incident. Nobody who stood guard during the day spotted any game, but water was plentiful and the skies were clear, and they made good time. Back in buckskins, Cheyenne normally rode point, but at every rest stop he checked with those riding flank and drag, and none ever spotted any sign of pursuit. Although the weather was beginning to turn cold, even the children were troupers, and the elders in the wagons kept the toddlers entertained with stories, so morale was relatively high despite having to leave their accustomed hunting grounds behind.

“Abbot may have won by forcing us to leave,” Puma noted at one point, “but the fact that we still live will rob the victory of its sweetness. And I think he’ll find his life the poorer now that he has no one left to fight.”

Cheyenne looked at him sidelong. “How old are you, Puma?”

“Eighteen summers,” Puma replied proudly.

“Pretty wise for a child.”

Puma spluttered, and everyone at the fire laughed, but not unkindly.

The band was preparing to eat before undertaking their sixth night of travel, however, when a lookout reported to Cheyenne that there were two white riders approaching from the south. Cheyenne had just given orders for the warriors to be on guard but not fire until he himself gave the word when he heard a shout in English:

“Hello, the camp! Bodie! Cheyenne Bodie, you there?”

Cheyenne couldn’t believe his ears until he turned and the lookout pointed out the riders coming through the prairie grass. Even then, he could scarcely believe his eyes—he couldn’t make out the faces terribly well, but he recognized the hats.

“Cheyenne?” called a second, higher voice. “’S’at you?!”

Cheyenne grinned so big, he thought his face might split. “Tom! Bronco!” he called back. “Come ahead!”

“You know them, Grey Fox?” Small Bear asked in the language of the People.

Cheyenne nodded. “Sweet Foot and Bucking Horse are old friends of mine,” he explained quietly in the same language. “They’re not to be harmed—but I want a watch kept in case they’ve been followed.”

The other warriors murmured their understanding, but Small Bear frowned in confusion. “Sweet Foot?”

Cheyenne grimaced. “I guess it doesn’t translate so well… when a white man is new in the West, other white men say, ‘His foot is tender.’ When he’s new and lacks skill, they say, ‘His foot is sweet.’”

The warriors were still laughing about that when Tom and Bronco rode up. “Lemme guess,” Tom said, rolling his eyes as he dismounted. “You called me Sugarfoot.”

“Not ’cause I think any less of you,” Cheyenne disclaimed in English and walked over to shake hands. “Sure am glad to see you fellas.”

Tom smiled back at him and shook his hand warmly. “Good to see you, too, Cheyenne.”

Bronco’s smile, on the other hand, didn’t reach his eyes. “Reckoned we might run into you out here,” he said as he shook hands with Cheyenne. “That’s why we volunteered to scout for the cavalry patrol that’s camped just over the ridge behind us.”

Cheyenne raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Can they see much from there?”

“Not clearly. Cap’n Benteen sent us to see what we could find out.”

“I see.” Fred Benteen was no great friend of the People, but he was no friend of Custer’s, either, and didn’t have a lot of use for Reno. From what he’d told Cheyenne privately about his own part in the Battle of the Washita River, Cheyenne was willing to believe Benteen wouldn’t give chase when the band disappeared overnight— _if_ Tom and Bronco could convince him that they weren’t hostile. Cheyenne took a deep breath. “Well, we’re just about to eat. Will you join us?”

Bronco’s smile turned genuine. “Sure. Been out here long?”

Cheyenne scoffed. “I don’t even know what _day_ it is right now. C’mon.”

“Do any of these people speak English?” Tom asked as Cheyenne ushered them toward his own fire.

“Some of ’em,” Cheyenne replied, deliberately vaguely in hopes they wouldn’t notice Small Bear translating for the elders, and offered coffee as they sat down. “So how’s life up at Fort Lincoln?”

“Tense,” Tom stated and punctuated it with a drink of coffee. “We didn’t leave from there, though—they’ve rigged up a temporary telegraph line to the gold camp.”

Bronco shook his head. “Custer’s got gold fever and blood lust in about equal parts. This keeps up, I dunno how long he’ll hang onto his command or his scalp. Half tempted to take it myself,” he added under his breath into his cup.

Cheyenne huffed. “Careful, Bronco. Folks’ll talk.”

Tom choked trying not to laugh.

After that, the conversation was entirely about light, inconsequential matters, and Tom and Bronco ate just enough to be polite, although they both exclaimed loudly over how tasty it was. Cheyenne could never quite tell what Bronco was thinking, but Tom, at least, seemed not to want to take too much from people who were clearly on the brink of starvation.

“Saw your gal ’fore we left the fort,” Bronco finally said as Cheyenne walked the two visitors out of camp.

Cheyenne’s heart squeezed. “Irene? How is she?” He missed her, but he hadn’t forgotten her views on the Sioux.

“She’s fine. Broke things off with Reno for good, or so she says.” Bronco gave Cheyenne a searching look. “What do you want me to tell her when we get back?”

Cheyenne sighed and shrugged. “The truth, I guess: that you saw me, that I asked after her, that I’m all right. May not be back up that way this year, but… maybe come spring.”

“I thought you loved her.”

“I do, but… she’s the kind o’ person who, once she’s set in her mind what she wants and how she thinks, she just won’t have it any other way. Kinda had my belly full o’ that right now.”

They were out of earshot of camp now, and Tom stopped and turned to him. “All right, Cheyenne, what’s really goin’ on here? You haven’t gone native on us, have you?”

From anyone else, that question would have deeply offended Cheyenne, but he knew what Tom meant. “Look, fellas, I’ll have to tell you the whole story some other time, but the truth is… my father died.”

“Your…” Tom’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh, I… I’m sorry. What happened?”

“Heart attack. Guess you’d call it a broken heart.”

“Well, I’m sure sorry for your loss.”

Cheyenne ducked his head. “Thanks. Least I got to say goodbye.”

Bronco frowned a little. “Ain’t you got any brothers? Indian brothers, I mean?”

“They’re all dead,” Cheyenne admitted. “Killed by white landgrabbers.”

Bronco winced.

“My father told me on his death bed he wanted me to bring the band out here. So that’s what I’m doin’.”

“Are you sure you’re doin’ the right thing, though?” Tom asked, genuinely concerned. “I mean, wouldn’t it be better to take ’em to a fort to surrender?”

Cheyenne crossed his arms. “Tom, for someone who’s lived in Indian Territory, you sure don’t know much about the reservations. They’re on the worst land, with an awful climate and diseases the people aren’t used to. There’s no game to hunt; they can’t grow crops ’cause the soil’s too poor. Half the time, the supplies the government promises never arrive, and when they do, they’re often spoiled. Children are taken from their parents by force and sent to government boardin’ schools where they’re abused and forbidden to speak their own language. And every few years, some genius in Washington decides to steal another chunk of the land for settlers with a new treaty no one intends to honor. It’d be one thing if the government would agree to let the Northern Cheyenne stay in this area, but I’m positive that even if they gave _me_ their sworn word, they’d still force ’em to move down to the Southern Cheyenne reservation.”

“But… they’d be _safe_ there, right? Safe from the Army?”

“Black Kettle warned the government repeatedly that he couldn’t control some of the young warriors, but when the 7th Cavalry arrived at the Washita River, his village was on reservation land with white flags flying from the tent poles. Custer had ’em slaughtered anyway—old men, women, children. Does that sound _safe_ to you?”

“Really?” Bronco challenged.

Cheyenne looked at him. “Ask Benteen. He was there. Told me he tried to spare one o’ Black Kettle’s sons, but the boy wouldn’t stop shootin’ at ’im—and I can’t blame either one of ’em, seein’ as how Black Kettle tried to run and Custer’s men shot him and his wife in the back.”

Tom looked sick.

“That’s not how Custer tells it,” said Bronco.

“That’s the way it was,” said Cheyenne, resisting the urge to slug him. Bronco was no friend of Custer’s, either, and if he’d meant to call Cheyenne a liar, he’d have done so plainly. “We’re not lookin’ for trouble, Bronco. You let me get the band into the mountains, and I’ll be back to the same ol’ Cheyenne you’ve always known within the day. But I made my father a promise, and I aim to keep it, get these people out of a bad situation without takin’ ’em into a worse one. They’re the closest thing to a family I’ve ever known… I can’t just let ’em starve.”

Bronco tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Fair ’nuf.”

Tom ran a hand over his mouth. “All right, Cheyenne. We won’t mention you to Benteen; we’ll tell ’im it’s a friendly band, just passin’ through. And we won’t tell Miss Travers where we saw you.”

Cheyenne smiled and relaxed. “Thanks, Tom.”

Bronco nodded his agreement. “And if Benteen asks?”

“You can say it’s White Cloud’s band,” Cheyenne stated, “or you can tell ’im my name is Grey Fox.”

Bronco gave him another searching look, then nodded once and stuck out his hand. “Well, then, Grey Fox—I truly am sorry for your loss.”

Cheyenne nodded back and shook his hand.

“Hope we see you again real soon,” Tom added, shaking Cheyenne’s hand in turn.

“Not _too_ soon,” Cheyenne cautioned with a wink.

Tom and Bronco both grinned at him, mounted their horses, and rode away. Cheyenne stayed where he was for a moment, his smile fading as he watched them go.

Puma came up behind him with just enough noise not to startle him. “Grey Fox? Is everything all right?”

Cheyenne turned to him. “Pass the word—we move at full dark.”

Puma nodded and ran ahead of Cheyenne back into camp.

* * *

[1] Given the sheer number of canon crossover episodes, all the Warner Brothers Westerns from the late ’50s and early ’60s exist in the same universe. The Mavericks never appear in _Cheyenne_ (although James Garner did guest star several times as other characters before _Maverick_ began), but Bret and Bart both appear separately in the first season of _Sugarfoot_ , and Cheyenne, Bronco, and Tom all appear in _Maverick_ 4.2 “Hadley’s Hunters.” (Whether later crossovers like _The Gambler Returns: The Luck of the Draw_ should be considered canon is a question I’ll leave open.)


	3. Chapter 3

That night was the tensest of the entire trip. Word had spread that Bronco and Tom had been scouting for Benteen, so all of the adults were anxious to get as far as they could before sunrise. Cheyenne made sure everyone took adequate time to rest and eat while the horses rested, but no one felt safe stopping after only twenty miles, so they pushed on and reached the foothills of the Bear Lodge Mountains around sunrise.

Cheyenne and Small Bear had just hidden the wagons out of sight of the main trail and posted lookouts when a male voice hailed them in the language of the People. Small Bear answered, and a lone rider came into camp from the northeast.

“I come from Little Wolf,” he announced as he rode up to Cheyenne. “My name is Blue Horse. Who are you, and what are you doing in these hills?”

“I am Grey Fox, son of White Cloud,” Cheyenne answered. “My father bade me bring our people to Little Wolf. I must return to the white men soon and cannot stay with the band, but we know Little Wolf to be a strong chief whose word is good and who looks after widows and orphans.”

Blue Horse gave Cheyenne an appraising once-over. “Where has your band come from?”

“The Bighorn Mountains, seven days’ walk west of here. For many summers, my people hunted there.”

Blue Horse looked like he was about to say something skeptical, but Small Bear piped up, “It is as Grey Fox says. I am Small Bear, and I have known Grey Fox all my life. He is a blood brother of the People, a true son of White Cloud, and his word is good.”

Blue Horse’s eyes narrowed. “And where is White Cloud?”

“He died of a broken heart. Grey Fox had come back to him, but the white man had killed all his other sons and driven off the game.”

“I see.” Blue Horse nodded slowly.

“We haven’t yet laid the cooking fires,” said Cheyenne, “but you’re welcome to stay and eat with us before you return to Little Wolf. Tell him also there’s a cavalry patrol a day’s ride behind us.”

That startled Blue Horse out of whatever he was thinking. “Cavalry patrol? Coming here?”

“We don’t know. We rode through the night to get here, and we’ve been brushing over our trail. I don’t _think_ they’ll follow us, but I can’t be sure.”

“And their scouts?”

“White men, known to me. They met us on the trail yesterday. They warned me about the patrol, and I’m certain they won’t betray us. But they didn’t say where _they_ were headed.”

“Of course not,” Blue Horse muttered, looking away and clearly thinking hard. Then he looked at Cheyenne again. “I will signal Little Wolf and then return and eat with you.”

Cheyenne nodded. “That’s fair. We’ll wait for you.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Blue Horse promised and rode away.

Cheyenne turned to Small Bear. “Watch his signals. Tell me if there’s anything out of the ordinary.”

“Right.” Small Bear clapped Cheyenne on the arm and went to climb a tree while Cheyenne got on with helping set up camp.

An hour later, storm clouds were building to the west when Cheyenne finally set his coffee pot on the fire in his own tepee and Small Bear rejoined him. “Looks like Thunderbird’s on our side, anyway,” Cheyenne observed.

Small Bear chuckled. “Well, so is Little Wolf. I’ll let Blue Horse give you the details.”

“He’d better hurry. We’ve only got another hour or two before that storm gets here.”

There were hoofbeats outside just then, and Small Bear ducked back out to usher Blue Horse in. Blue Horse didn’t seem to know what to make of the bacon and beans Cheyenne was fixing, but he happily accepted a serving of corn mush with dried chokecherries on top. Small Bear did most of the talking during the meal, informing Blue Horse of the band’s numbers, history, and deeds in war and peace.

For his own part, Cheyenne waited until the meal was over to ask, “So what was Little Wolf’s answer?”

“White Cloud’s people are our cousins,” Blue Horse answered. “Little Wolf is pleased to welcome them. Our stores are not as plentiful as in some years, but we have enough to share. But he does worry about this patrol you spoke of. The storm will hinder them, but will it be enough to give all of us time to move on from this place?”

Cheyenne had a feeling there was more to it than that, but whatever Little Wolf had actually said, Blue Horse and Small Bear were determined to be diplomatic about it. Or maybe Small Bear was determined not to let Blue Horse make an issue of Cheyenne’s being white. Either way, Cheyenne decided as he stared into his coffee cup, the next move in this little chess game was his, and there was really only one way to resolve the whole thing honorably and peacefully.

“All right,” he said, meeting Blue Horse’s eyes again. “You know the way to Little Wolf’s camp and I don’t. You guide my people to Little Wolf. Leave me and the wagons here.”

Small Bear’s eyes widened in alarm. “Grey Fox!”

“Remember, I know those men,” Cheyenne continued, looking at Small Bear. “Sweet Foot and Bucking Horse are my friends, and they’re volunteers—if Benteen orders them to harm me, they’ll leave his company at once. I’d stack the three of us up against the rest of the patrol any day of the week. I doubt it’ll come to that unless Reno’s with them, but I’m ready if it does. At the very least, I can buy you more time. Besides, I’d be telling the truth if I said I don’t know where you’ve gone. The Crow scouts know Little Wolf’s in these mountains, but their information’s nearly a moon old. And since we’re nowhere near Custer’s gold camp in the Black Hills, there’s not much chance of Benteen seeing you as an active threat.”

“But we don’t _know_ that the patrol is coming this way, and you haven’t even spoken to Little Wolf yourself, and….”

Cheyenne put a hand on Small Bear’s shoulder. “Just leave me enough food for five days, my brother. I’ll be fine.”

Small Bear was blinking back tears. “Five days?”

“I’ll camp here tonight, then leave the wagons and ride south. That’s the way I want to head anyway, and there’s a chance it’ll lead the patrol away from you. It should take just about five days to reach Fort Laramie, and there’s a trading post there.” The trail south would take Cheyenne through the J Rolling M Ranch before that, but after his dealings with Abbot, he wasn’t anxious to deal with another land-hungry rancher so soon.

“But if you leave the wagons, what will you trade?”

Cheyenne hadn’t figured that out yet, but there was no way his horse could pull even one wagon alone. “I’ll think of something.” If all else failed, he could enlist as a scout for another six months; at least at Fort Laramie, he wouldn’t be likely to have to serve under Custer again.

“Grey Fox….” Small Bear swallowed hard and switched to English. “ _Cheyenne_. Do not do this.”

“I don’t see as I’ve got much choice,” Cheyenne admitted in the same language. “It’s hard to say goodbye like this, I know that. I’ll miss you, too. But it’s better this way. I’ll be all right.”

Small Bear looked crushed, but he nodded. “Very well.”

“Thanks.” Cheyenne squeezed Small Bear’s shoulder and let go of him.

“Cheyenne?” Blue Horse echoed, confused.

Cheyenne turned back to him and switched languages. “That’s what the white men call me: Cheyenne Bodie.”

Blue Horse raised his chin as recognition flared in his eyes. “I know that name. They say your word is good, that you argue our cause before the white men.”

“Not always with much success,” Cheyenne admitted, thinking of his recent failure to convince Custer not to violate the Fort Laramie Treaty. “I try, though.”

Blue Horse nodded. “It is good. I will lead your people.”

Cheyenne heard a splatter of raindrops hitting the side of the tepee and grimaced. “You’ll have to wait until the rain stops, I’m afraid—but that’s just as well. My people are exhausted after having come so far in one night.”

“Yes, I could tell. I told Little Wolf as much; he understands. I don’t think we should wait for full dark, though. If we can leave when the sun is still a quarter above the horizon, it would be better.”

Cheyenne shook his head. “You’ll have to take that up with the others. I can’t guarantee they’ll be awake by then.”

Small Bear had pulled himself together by this point and said, “I’ll introduce Blue Horse to the elders. They’ll have a better sense of what time we can leave.”

Cheyenne nodded his approval, and Small Bear and Blue Horse left. Once they were gone, however, a bone-deep weariness came over Cheyenne that even coffee couldn’t dispel. He used what was left in the coffee pot to put out the fire, wrapped himself in his blanket, and fell asleep with his head on his saddle to the drumming of the rain on the hides covering the tepee.

When Small Bear finally woke him, the rain had stopped; the tepee was gone; the sun was beginning to appear below the western edge of the clouds; and the band was packed and ready to leave.

Cheyenne frowned blearily at Small Bear. “Why didn’t you—”

“You are near the end of your own strength, Grey Fox, whether you know it or not,” Small Bear replied. “We know how little you’ve slept on this journey, how many days you’ve watched with the warriors to ensure our safety, but even the greatest chiefs must rest. We thought it only right to let you sleep until it was time for us to go.”

Part of Cheyenne’s mind rebelled against that logic, but what was done was done, and everyone seemed to be waiting for him to say something. So he got up, took a deep breath, pushed his hair out of his face, and turned to the others.

“My people,” he said, “this is where we must part once more. I have brought you as far as I can. I do not know if we will meet again, but know that I will hold each of you in my heart as long as I live.”

In response, the entire band burst into a song of parting, and there were quite a few tears shed on all sides. Then everyone bade Cheyenne farewell individually, after which Small Bear helped him move his bedroll into one of the wagons, where they’d already placed the rest of his gear. The two men exchanged some final private words of thanks, and Cheyenne crawled into the wagon, lay down again, and slept like the dead until a bird singing loudly from its perch on the tailgate told him it was morning.

Other than the day-old remains of his own fire, there was no sign left that the band had ever been there. All was still and quiet… too quiet. Cheyenne hadn’t realized how much comfort he’d been taking from the familiar quiet bustle of the camp, the giggles of the children and the voices of the elders he’d known all his life. Now they were gone, and he truly had no idea where—he hadn’t heard them leave, and there was no trail to follow. Granted, that had been the plan, and it meant that he couldn’t tell Benteen anything even if he wanted to; he just hadn’t expected it to hit him this hard.

He might never see White Cloud’s band again.

He could only hope he’d done the right thing by trusting Blue Horse and Little Wolf. Small Bear had seemed to think Blue Horse was trustworthy enough, so Cheyenne wasn’t overly worried about Little Wolf treating the band poorly. There was always that niggling doubt, however, and then there was the larger question of Custer. How long would the People be safe in these hills? Would anyone else suffer Black Kettle’s fate? How many more people would have to die before white men learned to keep their word and treat the Indians with the respect they were due?

His mood as gloomy as the previous day’s weather, Cheyenne rousted himself out to check on his horse and fix himself some breakfast. That gave him enough energy to shave and wash his dishes, his clothes, and himself in a nearby stream. Yet refreshing as the bath was, the cold water and the damp air left him shivering as he dressed for white society, and while another cup of coffee put the shivers to flight, he didn’t think he was up to hitting the trail quite yet. So he lay down in the wagon again for a nap.

He woke to a vaguely familiar male voice ordering in English, “Check the wagons. See if there’s anything left.”

Cheyenne eased his rifle out of its scabbard as he listened to footsteps outside. One particular set tromped around the wagon he was in and approached the tailgate. When he heard the latch rattle, he rolled over and aimed—right between a very familiar pair of blue eyes, whose owner threw his hands up and staggered back with a squeak of “Whoa!”

Cheyenne sighed, relaxed, and lowered his rifle. “Hi, Tom.”

Tom put a hand to his chest. “Boy, you scared me out of ten years’ growth, Cheyenne!”

“Good,” Cheyenne couldn’t resist teasing. “Means I’m still taller’n you.”

Bronco guffawed from somewhere outside. Tom just shook his head with a wry smile and lowered the tailgate to let Cheyenne out.

“Is that Bodie?!” Benteen asked and came around the wagon as Cheyenne emerged. “Good Lord, man, where have you been? Col. Custer said you disappeared the moment your enlistment ended.”

“I didn’t disappear; I was sent for,” Cheyenne answered, turning back to retrieve his hat before facing Benteen again and continuing. “Somethin’ came up a few days’ ride from here that I had to take care of at once. While I was there, I ran into a friend. Other business didn’t pan out, so the friend said he had some precious cargo to deliver out this way and needed my help. We got this far, but last night he ran off while I was asleep. What you see here is all that’s left.”

Out the corner of his eye, Cheyenne could see Tom frowning slightly as he filled in at least some of the blanks. Bronco was still out of Cheyenne’s line of sight, but he was probably doing the same. Neither of them said anything.

Benteen’s eyes narrowed in calculation, too, but of a different sort. “We were sent to investigate a report wired to Col. Custer by Lionel Abbot stating that there were hostile Indians moving in this direction.”

“Abbot’s a liar,” Cheyenne growled before he could stop himself. Tom looked startled, but Cheyenne continued, “He’s been in a blood feud with the Cheyenne since they killed his wife and son in a raid on a wagon train. Now he’s tryin’ to use you to finish the job.”

Benteen looked skeptical. “We did sight a party of Cheyenne two days ago, but they vanished overnight.”

Now Cheyenne’s eyes narrowed. “Fred, you know as well as I do that if those Cheyenne had been hostile, we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation.”

“Where are they, Cheyenne?”

“I don’t know, and I’d swear to it in court.”

“Did you give them rifles?”

“No, and I can prove it.”

“Liquor?”

“No, and I can prove that, too.”

Benteen studied Cheyenne’s face a moment, then took a deep breath, let it out again, and nodded. “I believe you.”

Cheyenne was almost dizzy with relief, and Tom visibly relaxed.

“Perhaps it’s just as well the rain delayed us yesterday,” Benteen continued, looking a bit haunted. “I wouldn’t have wanted a repetition of what happened at the Washita River.”

Neither Cheyenne nor Tom responded.

After a moment, Bronco came around the corner of the wagon. “So what now, Benteen? Trail’s stone cold. Every route outta here’s got the same brush marks. I doubt if we could even find Cheyenne’s friend, let alone those Indians.”

Cheyenne resolutely did not shoot Bronco a look that could convey his gratitude.

Benteen sighed. “Well, since we’re over this side of the Black Hills anyway, we may as well go down to Fort Laramie to make our report and pick up some supplies. We’ll take the wagons.”

“Now, hold on, Fred,” Cheyenne interrupted. “These wagons are mine, bought and paid for—I’ve got the bill of sale in my saddlebag. And I’m a civilian now. You take my wagons, you’ve got to pay me for ’em.”

“He’s right,” Tom chimed in. “Under the Fifth Amendment—”[1]

“I’m aware of the Takings Clause, Counselor,” Benteen stated with a look of mingled irritation and amusement. “All right, Cheyenne, name your price.”

Cheyenne quoted a price, less than the wagons were worth but more than he’d paid for them, “and I go with you as far as Fort Laramie.”

Benteen laughed suddenly, but it was a relieved laugh. “Cheyenne, you’re a wonder. It’s a deal.”

They shook hands, and Benteen paid Cheyenne on the spot. Then, while Benteen set the rest of the patrol to hitching up the wagons, Tom and Bronco helped Cheyenne get his gear out of the one wagon and get his horse saddled.

“You sure weren’t kiddin’ the other day,” Bronco said under his breath as he set the saddle on the blanket Tom was arranging. “If I hadn’t seen you in that get-up, I’d never believe you’d come out here with you-know-who.”

“That’s the idea,” Cheyenne murmured back and buckled the cinch strap.

Tom shot him a worried look from the other side of the horse. “Are you all right, Cheyenne?”

Cheyenne hesitated before deciding it was safe to be honest with them. “No.”

Tom and Bronco looked at each other.

“How long are you gonna stay at Fort Laramie?” Bronco asked.

Cheyenne shook his head. “Probably just overnight.”

Tom made a considering face. “We’ll see if Benteen will let us have a separate fire.”

Cheyenne smiled tightly at him. “Thanks.”

Bronco looked away and muttered, “Guess it’s a good thing Smitty ain’t here.”

Cheyenne snorted, barely managing to stop short of helpless laughter. Smitty was a good egg and a dear friend, but he’d never be able to keep this particular secret. And frankly, his brand of humor would be mighty trying at a time like this.

It wasn’t much longer before Benteen was ready to move out, and Cheyenne rode with Tom and Bronco at the head of the column. After the first rest stop, however, Benteen sent the three of them to scout ahead, which gave Cheyenne the chance to tell the short version of the rest of the story without the patrol overhearing.

“Land o’ Goshen,” Tom sighed when Cheyenne finished. “I’m amazed you’re still on two feet after all that.”

“I wasn’t yesterday,” Cheyenne admitted. “If you fellas hadn’t come along when you did, I’m not sure I’d have made it down the trail today, either.”

Bronco pushed his hat back and reseated it. “Reckon that does explain Abbot’s telegram. Like you said, Bodie, he was wantin’ us to finish your father’s band off, and maybe you with ’em. He musta been real ticked off to find out they escaped an’ you helped ’em.”

Cheyenne looked at him. “That why you didn’t tell me about that telegram two days ago?” When Tom and Bronco exchanged an awkward look, Cheyenne smiled and shook his head. “I ain’t mad.”

“Benteen didn’t tell us, either,” said Tom, and Cheyenne believed it. Tom could keep a secret, but he couldn’t tell a lie to save his life. “All he said was we were lookin’ for hostiles headed for the Black Hills. Bronc kinda had a hunch, though.”

“I didn’t have all the pieces,” Bronco agreed, “but those orders came in two days after you’d asked about Little Wolf, an’ you’d said it was urgent. Since Little Wolf’s Cheyenne, I didn’t figure you were askin’ ’cause you expected trouble from ’im. So I told Tom we’d best tag along, just in case.”

Cheyenne nodded. “I’m glad you did.”

Tom shifted in his saddle. “Why would Abbot swear out a complaint like that, though? He’d won.”

“Not to his mind,” Cheyenne replied. “He’d vowed to see every member of White Cloud’s clan _dead_ , not just off his land. He probably doesn’t even know my father’s dead—the only people outside the band who I’ve told are you two and Blue Horse, and I’m not sure Blue Horse has even told Little Wolf yet. It’s like Puma said: a range war that turns into a blood feud is about the only fight you can lose by winnin’ when the other side quits and walks away. And Abbot can’t bear to lose, ’specially to me or my father.”

“Well, he’ll hafta get used to it,” said Bronco. “Heard Benteen say Abbot may own half the territory, but he don’t own the Army.”

Cheyenne’s estimation of Benteen rose several notches.

After a pause, Bronco asked, “So if you’re not stayin’ in Fort Laramie, where are you headed?”

Cheyenne shook his head. “Don’t know yet. Got enough money now to get to Texas, see if anyone down there needs a hand for the winter. Maybe come back north with a herd in the spring.”

Tom shot him a worried look. “So what can we do for you in the meantime?”

Cheyenne smiled. “You’re already doin’ it, Tom.”

Tom smiled in relief, and so did Bronco.

* * *

With few exceptions, Benteen allowed Tom, Bronco, and Cheyenne to continue riding ahead of the patrol the rest of the way to Fort Laramie. Bronco had apparently said something to him—what, Cheyenne never learned—but given that the talk among the troopers always seemed to be of gold and killing Sioux whenever Cheyenne did turn back to report, he suspected Benteen would have wanted him out of camp anyway. As it was, the arrangement suited Cheyenne just fine. Tom and Bronco were willing to talk about things when Cheyenne needed to, avoid sensitive subjects when he needed them to, and not talk at all (or let him not talk) when conversation got to be too much. He couldn’t have asked for better friends, especially at the moment.

Even so, they parted company at Fort Laramie. There was a letter waiting for Tom, asking him to take a case in Scottsbluff, Nebraska, as soon as possible, and a marshal needed Bronco’s help to transport a prisoner to the territorial prison. So after a night’s rest on a real bed, the three of them took their leave of each other, and Cheyenne headed south to the town that shared his name.

It was after dark, though early in the evening, on his second day out from Fort Laramie when Cheyenne left his horse in the livery stable and headed to the nearest hotel, thinking of nothing more than a hot bath, a hot meal, and a soft bed. He’d just signed the hotel register, however, when a passing lady stepped wrong and turned her ankle. Cheyenne caught her out of pure reflex—but when she looked up to thank him, her face was familiar.

“Cheyenne?!” she gasped.

Hearing her voice put a name to her face with a snap. “Lorna! What are _you_ doin’ here? Thought you two would be all the way back East by now.”

“It’s a long story,” said Lorna Abbot. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!”

She started to hug him, but he pulled back. “I’ve been on the road a while,” he explained with a rueful chuckle. “Best let me get cleaned up ’fore I get any more dust on your dress.”

She smiled. “All right. When you’ve finished, come and have supper with us.”

“I will, thank you.”

“We’re in Room 12.” She turned to the clerk. “Put Mr. Bodie’s room on our bill.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the clerk and gave Cheyenne the key to a room on the same floor, with a promise to have a bath sent up right away.

Once he was fit for polite company, Cheyenne presented himself at the door of Room 12, where Lorna hugged him properly and ushered him in and over to the bed, where a pale-faced James was reclining in his nightclothes.

“Well, well,” James said in a mocking tone. “If it isn’t Brother John!”

“That’s not funny, James,” Cheyenne cautioned, even as the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

James snickered and dropped the act. “How are you, Cheyenne?”

“Been better, been worse.” Cheyenne shook hands with James and dropped into a chair beside the bed.

“How’s Father?”

“Left ’im with a sore jaw an’ a sore head, but that was two weeks ago. At least his jaw shoulda mended by now.”

James chuckled. “And White Cloud?”

“Died the day after you left.”

James’ smile faded, and Lorna sat down on the bed. “What happened?” Lorna asked.

“His heart gave out.”

“I’m sorry,” James said sincerely. “He was a better man than Father would have had me believe.”

Cheyenne nodded, unsure what to say.

“Is that what kept you so long?” Lorna wondered.

Cheyenne nodded again. “Had to get the rest of the band to safety. Seems your father found out and sent the Army after us. By some miracle, they had friends of mine with ’em, so there was no trouble, but it sure was a tense journey.”

“I see.” Lorna didn’t seem to know what else to say and simply took James’ hand.

Cheyenne looked from wife to husband and back. “So what’s kept you here?”

James huffed. “It seems my drinking problem was worse than I realized even after you pulled me out of that river.”

“We came this far on the stagecoach,” Lorna explained, “but before we could decide which train to take, James… er… fell ill. He’s only just recovered enough to get up for part of the day and eat without his hands shaking.”

“Yes, and _write_ without my hands shaking.” James looked down and squeezed Lorna’s hand before looking at Cheyenne again. “Almost the first thing I did when I had the strength was to write Father a letter stating that even if he didn’t disown me, I was disowning him. With it went a copy of a court record. You’re now looking at Mr. and Mrs. James Wilson.”

Cheyenne let out a low whistle. He wanted to ask whether James was sure he wanted to do that, but the memory of Abbot’s domineering ways, down to demanding that James and Lorna give him a grandchild before he’d agree to let them move out of the house, was still too fresh. Only a step this drastic could possibly make Abbot see the need to reconcile with his last surviving flesh-and-blood son—Cheyenne’s own words certainly hadn’t, although they had seemed to find their mark. But even now, Cheyenne could picture Abbot standing in the family cemetery, alone with the terrible knowledge that he’d lost his last chance to establish the dynasty he’d so desperately wanted… and blaming the whole thing on White Cloud to the end.

Two elk with their horns locked, indeed.

“So what’ll you do now?” Cheyenne asked instead.

James sighed and shook his head. “I’ll have to get a job somewhere, but I don’t… I don’t have any idea where or what yet. We need to get out of this territory, but we can’t go all the way back East, either. Father’s got too many friends in San Francisco.”

“Well, like I said, you’ve got a good head for business.” Cheyenne thought a moment. “I know some folks in Kansas City who might be able to use your help.”

James and Lorna both brightened at that.

“Ranching business?” James guessed.

Cheyenne nodded. “Yeah. Nothin’ like your—like the Abbot spread, but big enough they could use a good man with management skills and pay you well enough to support as big or small a family as you want.”

James and Lorna looked at each other and squeezed each other’s hands, long enough that Cheyenne could see a slight tremor still plaguing James’ hands.

“It’s worth checking out,” James agreed. “The worst they can do is say no.”

Lorna nodded and looked at Cheyenne again. “The doctor says James should be well enough for train travel in another two or three days. Will you go with us, at least long enough to make introductions and see us settled?”

The irony of her request wasn’t lost on Cheyenne. But he was in fact going to Kansas City anyway to catch the train to Austin, and no one was expecting him at the other end, so spending an extra few days here and in Kansas City wouldn’t do any harm.

“Sure, Lorna.” Cheyenne smiled. “What else is family for?”

* * *

[1] Most people remember only the self-incrimination clause of this amendment to the US Constitution, but it’s also the amendment that states, among other things, “nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.” (This is the clause that gives rise to the vexed question of eminent domain, but it would also apply to commandeering a civilian’s wagons this way.)


End file.
